


Sinking

by hopeintheashes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:11:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeintheashes/pseuds/hopeintheashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, the weight on his chest is indistinguishable from grief. Set early in Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sinking

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [LJ](http://hopeintheashes.livejournal.com/6290.html) on July 10, 2011.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Mention of self-harm  
> 
> 
>  **Many thanks** to [](http://kat-of-rafters.livejournal.com)[](http://kat-of-rafters.livejournal.com/)[](http://kat-of-rafters.livejournal.com)**kat_of_rafters** for her beta skills and endless patience.

. . .  
. . . 

There’s a flutter of wings, a flash of white and gold against the darkness. A moth floats upward on a wisp of air exhaled from upturned lips. Dark eyelashes slide slowly down, then up, unveiling hazel eyes. Inhale, exhale. Heartbeat, wing beat. Sam thinks of holding out his hand, of asking it to alight there, to cover his palm with its delicate wings. He thinks, but doesn’t move. His limbs are weighted down. Another breath in the silence, in and out. The moth spirals higher, toward a ceiling. A trap. A moment to blink, a falling and rising, and then a stab of horror: there’s a pin through its body, wings struggling hard, straining and screaming against the pain. White and gold stain with red as a drop of blood slips down. It clings to the metal for a moment too long and hangs there, quivering. His stomach turns.

It falls, and Sam’s breathing ragged and hard, gasping against the inevitable. His forehead is wet and there’s fire and blood, white lace and golden hair and _Jess_ —

He comes up into darkness to find leather beneath his palms and bile rising in his throat like a scream. A pull and a push against icy metal, and “Sympathy for the Devil” spills into the night behind him. Three steps from the car, he curls up and heaves, vomit splashing in the dirt and the rough grass.

Dean’s just zipping his fly—“Jesus, Sam”—and turning his way, eyebrows coming down in disgust and concern.

Sam spits into the grass, eyes closed, and tries to wave him off. Dean wipes his fingers on his jeans and grabs the hand regardless, pulling him up and pressing him the few steps back to the car.

“You done?”

“Think so.” His voice is hoarse.

Dean waits, the question unspoken. Sam runs trembling fingers through sweaty hair, lowering his head to his hands.

He tries to say, _It’s nothing, Dean, get in, it’s fine_ , but his whole body is shaking now, giving up and giving in. “I—” A hard swallow. “God, I can still smell—” He gags on the words, heaving toward the dirt, can’t say _lace_ and _hair_ and _flesh_ , can’t say _Jess, I can smell Jess burning_ , and he’d thought there was nothing left for his body to evict, but it turns out he was wrong.

Somewhere in all of that, Dean had turned away—from the vomit or the confession or the weight of it all—but now he’s turning back around, one hand sweeping down his face, the other settling on Sam’s shoulder.

There’s a beat of silence, and then another, before Sam looks up into the moonlight.

“I know, man,” Dean says, his voice falling, shattering, and Sam can see the echo of a terrified four-year-old in his older brother’s eyes. “I know.”

 

. . .  
. . . 

They seal up that night like a fever dream, stitch shut their lips, and drive on. There’s a battered shoebox of old cassettes between them. Dean holds one up, a question in his eyebrows and the tilt of his wrist. Sam waves a hand in assent. _Whatever_.

The music is loud. It’s a fact, not a volume. Normally he’d object, but now he appreciates the way it fills up the spaces in his head, drowning out his thoughts. Dean’s been keeping the volume down—sign of the apocalypse right there—but Sam reaches over and turns it up. He closes his eyes against Dean’s surprise and focuses on the pulse of the bass in his chest. He dreams of fire, but that heartbeat is a tether, a rope he can use to pull himself out of hell.

 

. . .  
. . . 

  
At night, Sam watches Dean sleep. The first few times, he was sure that the weight of his gaze would be enough to bring Dean to, knife in hand, but his brother’s not quite as superhuman as Sam always imagined him to be. The high electric buzz of the television on mute would undoubtedly be enough, though, and Sam would rather maintain the ruse that he sleeps more than an hour or two a night. Instead, he watches Dean’s ribcage rise and fall. His own breathing falls in, and it helps.

 

. . .  
. . . 

  
At first, the weight on his chest is indistinguishable from grief. The grief, though, gives way when he’s hunting. Just a bit. Not in the lead-up, not in the research or the waiting or the blonde witnesses in white blouses. But in those run-for-your-life moments, in the thrill of watching a Wendigo go up in flames, he gets some kind of reprieve.

This weight, though, this constriction, tightens up when he runs, makes it hard to breathe. They get a few days’ downtime, no running required, and he puts it out of his mind. There’s no room for it in there, anyway. The fire would drive it away.

 

. . .  
. . . 

  
Some days, he wakes up shaking. It feels like a fever, trembling and weak. His mind’s not working right. Thoughts die unfinished on slow-moving lips. There’s an undercurrent of shame, as well: he’s always prided himself on sounding smart. Well-educated. In control.

He gets quieter, and he gets stiller, at least when Dean’s around. His long limbs are betraying him, as clumsy as his mind. There’s an electricity in them, making his skin crawl. When he’s alone, he draws his knife across the translucent skin of his wrist. Not much pressure. No blood. Just a power line for the energy. A lightning rod. A moment to breathe.

It’s getting harder, breathing, even when he’s sitting still. On Tuesday, he wakes up coughing and can’t stop. There’s something in there, some kind of crap in his lungs. Dean rolls over, watching him. Brings a glass of murky tap water. Starts packing up.

They’ve got a case. Sam tries to focus in on it, but the details keep flitting away. A haunting. A nice simple salt-and-burn, if they could just find the grave. It’s a small enough town, but the cemeteries are old and the records are gone. Something about a fire in the town hall a hundred years ago.

It always comes back to fire.

Today, they’re searching the Episcopal churchyard. Genealogists—that’s their cover, if anyone asks. Sam’s idea, of course. Not nearly exciting enough for Dean, but it’s rock-solid, and that earns him a few hours without Dean’s suspicious stare on the back of his neck.

The Midwest in November is colder than he remembered, especially after four winters spent in Palo Alto. The sun’s riding steadily across the dome of the sky, but the warmth’s not getting through. The cold is slowing down his brain. He’s going to be worthless soon.

The gravestones are ancient and hard to read. They have to go down every row, brushing away snow and moss. He keeps forgetting what letters he’s supposed to be looking for. When he looks down to check, the paper’s shaking in his hand. He sits down on a particularly sturdy-looking stone—more of a monument, really—and lets his head drop. There’s a few minutes of silence, then the crunch of boots on snow.

“Sam.”

“Mm.”

“You okay?”

The question hangs in the air like gunpowder waiting for a match. He can’t do this. Not in the middle of a graveyard. Not—

Oh. Dean’s waiting for an answer about the here and now, about whether Sam’s going to be able to stand up and finish the job. The connections in his head are faulty. He wants to hit himself a few times, to jar the wires into place. Instead, he starts to laugh. It’s a desperate sound that rattles in his chest and sears his throat.

Dean’s looking on with suspicion and unease, and they’re getting disapproving glares from an old couple walking past.

Dean closes his eyes, weighing his options, then opens them to fix on Sam. “Alright. We’re done.” He heads for the car. Sam follows, feet dragging in the snow.

They drive the fifteen minutes to the motel in silence. Sam flops down on his bed, not stopping to toe off his shoes until he’s horizontal. _Thud-thud_. They’ll be darkening the carpet with snowmelt soon. Dean, already pacing, kicks them aside.

“There’s gotta be a better way to do this. Going grave-by-grave is ridiculous.”

Sam’s certainly with him on that one, but makes no move to agree.

Dean turns on his heel and heads back in the other direction. “Someone’s gotta know where this guy is buried.”

Part of Sam wants to tell Dean to just let it go. It’s not a big deal—no one’s getting hurt, not really. Been going on for decades. It’s just something to keep them busy. To keep Sam’s mind off of things.

Sam laughs bitterly at that last one, at the idea that things will be okay as long as they just keep running. He’s laughing and coughing and starting to choke, and Dean’s looking at him like he’s losing his mind. He probably is. He gets it together, breathing carefully, and lets himself fade away.

 

. . .  
. . . 

  
It’s Wednesday when he wakes up—longest he’s slept in weeks. He supposes his body’s exhaustion must’ve overridden his mind, because he doesn’t remember any dreams. He can think more clearly now. There’s still phlegm rattling around in his chest, but it’s inconvenient, not insurmountable. They spend the day in the basement of the library, looking through microfiche. By dinnertime, they have a few names. It’s easy enough to find the addresses. For the moment, at least, they have a plan.

 

. . .  
. . . 

  
He should’ve known his reprieve would be short-lived. The sleep he got the night before carries him through to three a.m. Dean fell asleep with the TV on, and it covers the sounds of Sam’s restlessness. He can’t breathe laying down, but the headboard is sharp and unforgiving in the small of his back. There aren’t enough pillows—or blankets, come to think of it. It’s a cold night, and the heater is weak. He stares at a late-night infomercial, then flips through the channels ’til he finds a rerun of _I Love Lucy_ and turns down the sound until the studio audience’s shrieks of laughter are gone. It’s too quiet, but it’s too late to go back. Dean’s already fidgeting in his sleep.

He must’ve fallen asleep as well, because Dean’s calling his name, moving around, far too loud so early in the morning. He’d been dreaming of lying with Jess in his arms, warm and full of life. The shockwave of grief that hits him when he wakes is, in a lot of ways, worse than watching her burn.

He puts on a suit, the one he’d worn to her funeral. It’s not his, and it doesn’t fit quite right. The suit he was supposed to wear to his law school interview is in ashes in Palo Alto. This one was borrowed from… someone. Friend of a friend. “He says to keep it,” Justin had told him after the funeral. “He’s got more.” Sometimes Sam forgets that there are people out there with closets full of suits, people who don’t live out of the back of a forty-year-old car. He was almost one of them. He and Jess.

His fingers are fumbling with the tie. Dean takes it without being asked and ties it around his own neck, the way he did when they were little, for Christmas and Easter services with Pastor Jim. Sam was fascinated by the ritual, the sense of community. Dean was mostly there for the food.

Dean’s holding the tie out by its noose. “Think I made it long enough. You’ve gotten freakishly tall since the last time I had to do this.” He pauses, peering at Sam. “You look like shit.”

Sam sighs. “Yeah, thanks.”

“You good to go?”

“Sure.”

He’s not, really. He’s dizzy and aching and it hurts his chest to breathe. But he’s upright, and in this family, that’s enough.

“Then let’s go.”

He makes it through the first two interviews, letting Dean do most of the talking and all of the charming. When they stop for lunch, he orders a salad and picks at it, watching grease drip from Dean’s burger. “’S not even real food, Sam,” Dean says around a mouthful of ground beef. “For rabbits, not people.”

No reply.

They stop off at another cemetery, Lutheran this time, to check out a lead from the morning’s interviews. Sam can’t get over how comfortable Dean looks in a suit, striding purposefully through the graveyard. The dates on the stones run from the 1700s to just a few months ago, before the ground froze up. He catches a glimpse of a _J_ on one and digs his nails into his palms. _Janet Wells, beloved wife and mother_. He can’t look at the dates. Can’t calculate her age. It will always be _too soon_ and it will always be _more than she had, more than we got_. He trails behind Dean, staying in the oldest section, where the names have faded to shadows on slate.

On the way to their last interview, he lays his head back against the seat, but chokes on the crap that creeps down his throat. The window is no better, icy and wet with condensation. He leans forward, shivering, head in his hands. Dean sighs and turns the heat to high, then reaches into the back seat for Sam’s Carhartt, left hand still on the wheel. He drags the jacket into the front, dropping it between them. Sam pulls it into his lap and closes his eyes. There’s a hand on the back of his neck, heavy and cool and far too brief. He pillows the jacket against the window and falls down into sleep.

 

. . .  
. . . 

  
They’ve stopped. At least, he’s pretty sure they’ve stopped. He’s dizzy enough that it’s kind of hard to tell. He cracks an eye open to check, but the world outside is painfully bright, and he quickly makes his retreat. He catches a glimpse of Dean, though, running a hand over the spikes of his hair.

He should get up. It’s their last lead: an old lady. They really need whatever long-forgotten knowledge she’s got tucked away, and it works better as a team. That’s what Dad and Dean had always said. There’s a twist of guilt at the thought of Dad—guilt mixed with an anger he’s sure will never fade. He tries to breathe deep, to let the anger go, but the inhale catches in his chest. He coughs until he’s light-headed, a little bit stoned, and embraces the moment of escape.

Dean exhales between his teeth. “Just… stay. I’ve got this one.”

“But—”

“ _Stay_ , Sam.” The words are exasperated, like he’s talking to an uncooperative puppy. Sam wants to put up more of a fight, but he’s dizzy just sitting still. He falls back against the seat. Dean takes the movement for the surrender that it is, pressing the keys into Sam’s palm and sliding out the door.

With his eyes closed, it feels like he’s on the ocean. He’s too tired to swim. He stops fighting and sinks into the sea, riding the waves, letting them carry him away.

 

. . .  
. . . 

  
The ocean is on fire. He can’t escape the flames.

 

. . .  
. . . 

  
The car door slams and he jerks awake, eyes opening sluggishly and head too heavy to lift. Dean looks him over as he takes back the key, then pulls into the street. Things stop spinning once his body has a trajectory in space, and he slips away again.

 

. . .  
. . . 

  
Dean’s hand is on his shoulder, heavy and familiar, anchoring him. “We’re here.”

Sam wants to send back some witty retort because really, where else would they be? But his chest is heavy, and inhaling is a fight. Sure enough, he’s coughing again, doubled over, Dean’s hand still on his shoulder. After a minute, he regains control. Dean’s hand tightens reassuringly, then releases with a quick pat. “C’mon.”

Sam drags himself out of the car and back to bed. It’s no more comfortable than before, but he’s starting to accept its quirks. He catalogued them during sleepless nights, surrounded by stillness and the sound of Dean’s breathing, steady and low.

He catches Dean fidgeting at the corner of his eye and fights the downward pull. Dean starts toward the door. Draws back. Sam waits.

“I’m starving, man.” He hesitates. “You gonna keep breathing while I’m gone?”

 _Seriously?_ Sam looks up from the bed, knowing his eyes will say it all.

Dean turns on his heel, defensive. “Whatever.”

Time’s kind of sliding in and out, but Sam’s pretty sure it’s the fastest food run in the West. Or wherever the fuck they are right now. He used to know, but the memory is just out of reach.

Dean chucks a sandwich in his direction. It’s a command, not a gift.

Sam feels around somewhere near his hip and comes up with the sub. Sets it on the nightstand.

“Sam.”

“Dean.”

Dean just raises his eyebrows, and Sam gives in with a muttered “Jesus Christ.” He unwraps the paper and finds roast beef. He has to admit, it does look good—he’s thankful that the closest place to get food is a pretty decent deli, not some fast food joint. Dean can live on that crap for months, but Sam’s gotten used to better. Jess is a good cook. She—

Was.

Dean’s watching him. Sam looks up at the ceiling instead of meeting his gaze. That’s worse, so he goes back to the sub. The bread and the roast beef stick in his mouth. He has to keep stopping to breathe. It takes some concentration. He’s just not getting enough air.

 

. . .  
. . . 

  
At first, it’s just uncomfortable, and he’s frustrated that he’s going to have to spend another night sitting up against the wall. He stares at his laptop screen for an hour before switching to the TV. It’s all blurring anyway. When Dean goes to bed, he gives up on any pretense and leaves the TV on, as well as the lamp between the beds. Dean’s out in five minutes despite the noise and the light. Sam had almost forgotten Dean’s ability to sleep though anything and still fly out of bed at the first sign of danger. Thinking about it, though, Sam supposes that he’s not all that different. Out of practice, maybe, and not at the top of his game, but as hard as he tried to run, he’s a hunter. Maybe it’s time to give up the fight. To accept his destiny. It’s not like he has anything else to go back to anymore.

He’s still thinking about destiny when he dozes off at 1 a.m., thoughts circling unevenly, making him dizzy and a little bit queasy. He wakes up gasping at 3, choking on phlegm. He paces, legs shaky, trying to clear his lungs. His fingers are asleep, tingling with pins and needles. That can’t be good. He shakes out his hands and manages to cough up some of the crap. Unpleasant, but it helps. He can feel his fingers again. He sits down on his bed, shoulders against the wall and headboard in the small of his back, and dozes.

 

. . .  
. . . 

  
At 5:13 a.m. in the middle of November, the Midwest is still pitch black. It’s disorienting, but then, that might be the fever and the dawning realization that he can’t fucking breathe. He’s gasping and coughing, gripping the bedspread with shaking hands. They’re numb. So are his lips.

Dean’s in front of him, crouched down between his feet at the side of the bed. Always could wake up when it mattered. “Damn it, Sam, _calm down_.”

“Can’t breathe.”

“Yeah, that’s because you’re fucking hyperventilating. Just slow it down. C’mon.”

They’ve done this before, back when Dean’s hands were bigger than his, covering them completely, cool against his face. Dean had been scared then. He’d tried to hide it, but Sam had seen it in his eyes. Dad had been… well. Justified or not, Dad just hadn’t been there.

Dean’s watching him, focused in like it’s a hunt. Sam pulls in a slow breath and coughs and coughs, but nothing’s coming up. His fingers are cold.

Dean drops his head for a second, then stands up fast. There’s water running, light spilling out through the bathroom door. Sam remembers this part, too.

Dean stands in the doorway, silhouetted in the light. The lamp is still on, just bright enough to see the expectant look on his face. Sam’s still coughing. It’s constant. Ineffectual. He pushes himself up, unsteady on his feet. Dean steps out of the bathroom as he steps in, but doesn’t shut the door. Sam strips to his boxers and sits on the edge of the tub, head under the shower’s spray.

It’s hot, and the steam fills up the tiny space. At first, it’s harder to breathe. He’d fought Dean because of that, once upon a time. _C’mon, Sammy, do it for me_. The words are there in his memory, wrapped up in the feeling of being wrapped up in Dean. He’d fought like hell, six years old and terrified, but Dean had held him down, and sure enough, it had been good for him in the end.

Things are starting to loosen up. He’s still coughing, but at least it’s productive now. It’s fucking disgusting, makes him even queasier than before, but it’s better. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see what used to be inside his lungs. He hates this part. Almost as much as—

Shit.

There’s a moment of indecision, of trying to fight, and then he’s on his knees. Dean’s hovering in the doorway, blocking out the light. And yeah, he remembers this part too. That had been a hell of a night.

The shower’s still running, taking the edge off the sound of his retching. Dean’s watching him, and Sam knows he must look like hell, hair half-wet and falling over his face, boxers clinging to his body, on his knees on the bathroom floor. He pushes himself back up to sit on the edge of the tub, facing the door this time. Dean’s holding out a glass of water. Sam takes it and spits toward the shower drain. Much as he hates the process, he does feel better. Breathing’s not as easy as it should be, but he’s got feeling back in his fingers and his lips, and he’s not gasping anymore.

He gets up, still unsteady on his feet, and pushes the door closed. Alone, he strips off his boxers and steps into the shower. He stands there a little too long, using all of his energy and then some, but it’s worth it.

The sky is just starting to lighten when he emerges, shakily making his way to his bed. Dean raises his eyebrows, and Sam nods. Yeah, he’s okay. It’s a completely fucked-up sort of okay, but then, that’s all they’ve ever had.

Dean’s sliding into sleep, left hand slipping toward the ground. Sam piles up sweatshirts and coats to lean against, and starts to slip away as well. There’s fire down there, fire and a guilt he won’t be able to hide from Dean forever, but there’s also Jess. Her smile. Her fingers intertwined with his.

He can’t escape, and some nights, those nights where he gets her in his arms, he doesn’t want to. But the world’s still turning up above, and at least… well, at least he doesn’t have to go on up there alone.

 

. . .  
. . . 


End file.
